


Forever 1895

by alexxphoenix42



Series: Forever Freebatch [1]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Freebatch - Freeform, Frotting, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Infidelity, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Polyamory, RPF, Rimming, Sherlock Special, The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman are working hard at both filming the Sherlock special, and keeping all its secrets under wraps. Somehow along the way, they stumble onto new developments that need to be kept just as private.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever 1895

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is utter crack - Real Person Fic involving actors from BBC Sherlock. This is a work of fiction and does not purport to depict real people and real events in any accurate way. It's for fun, and my first foray into RPF writing. This work is not beta'ed or Brit Picked. Please be kind. ;)

 

*

 

“I’m just popping off for a cuppa, can I get you something?”

“Oh, yes, thanks. Tea would be lovely.”

“White, and sweet?”

“Hmmm?” Ben glanced up from the open script in his lap. “Oh, right, thanks, Martin. You’ve a good memory.”

“Git.” Martin smiled fondly. “How many cups of tea have I watched you drink in six plus years?” Martin pulled his ski jacket from a peg by the door and shrugged it over his Victorian shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

“Has it been that long?” Ben said absentmindedly, turning a page. Martin smiled. Ben always looked the most like Sherlock when he sat focused, hunched over a script, studying his lines. It didn’t hurt that period tweed trousers lay stretched over his long, crossed legs.

“Sometimes it feels longer. More like a lifetime.” Martin huffed a laugh as he zipped up his coat. “Back in a tick.”

Benedict hummed something affirmative in reply as Martin closed the trailer door behind him. They each had their own private trailer on set, the BBC managed to splash out enough to provide for both of the principal actors on its crown jewel of a production, Sherlock. Somehow or another though, Ben always ended up in Martin’s trailer. They were always going over lines, or working on blocking for one scene or another. It was one of the things Martin lov . . . admired about Ben. He was always working the craft, exploring, unafraid to try something new. The only time they seemed to use their own trailers was if Ben’s fiancé and Amanda were both on set.

Things were quieter this week. Amanda had wrapped up her filming and gone back to their home in Potters Bar. It was only a few more weeks before the rest of them would be done as well. It was a quick one this time. They weren’t filming a whole series, just meeting to make a special, a little one off, or so Mark and Steven had told everyone.

Martin sighed, and popped the collar of his coat against the wind as he trudged toward the canteen trailer. _Christ,_ but it was cold today. He couldn’t complain too hard though. A little dip in the Celsius in the rolling hills of Great Britain was nothing compared to filming _Fargo_ outside icy Calgary. Nearly froze his bollocks off with that gig. Martin shuddered a bit in memory. The large manor house they were renting this week loomed large to the side of the hustle and bustle of the film crew. They were like a small army descending on the country side – all the brass, actors, tech, assistants, and security they needed to make . . . what, thirty minutes of air time here for the special.

Martin chuckled a bit to himself as he thought back to the morning’s filming. This episode was going to be _such a_ surprise. Everyone working on the special had signed secrecy clauses of course, and God knows they’d had to keep things under wraps before for the show, but this. Well, it was going to be a long year keeping all of this quiet until the shspesh aired sometime around next Christmas. Martin stopped in his tracks to avoid bumping into a woman with a pony-tail and a puffy coat reading from a clipboard as she marched along. Her head popped up just in time to halt the imminent collision.

“Oh!” Her eyes went wide as her lips parted into a surprised smile. "Mr. Freeman, excuse me, please." Christ, she looked so young. Since when did the BBC hire fourteen-years-old to work on set? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember her name, Beth . . . Sarah . . . “Can I help you with something, sir?” She asked briskly, having settled back into all business.

“Erm, yeah." Martin leaned in to read her name off the badge clipped to her front. “Cathy . . .” He caught her gaze. “We could use a couple of teas, me and Benedict, at my trailer.” He jerked a thumb back the way he'd come. “If it’s not too much trouble.” Martin added, letting his most winning smile spread slowly across his face. He sent just the tip of his tongue out to touch his lip, watching as the young woman visibly melted before him, unconsciously licking own lips in reply. Bingo. He might be in his forties, but he still had it. Good to know.

“Ah,” Cathy-the-assistant drew in a quick breath. “Of course, sir. PG Tips, black, for you, and Twinings Early Grey with a splash of milk and two sugars for Mr. Cumberbatch, right?”

“That’s right. Thanks so much.” Martin nodded, impressed. He hesitated a moment, then moved in to grasp her upper arm, letting his fingers sink into her pillowy coat. “And a couple of biscuits too if they’ve got them, luv,” he whispered. He winked extravagantly as he stepped back as if this were some very daring request.

The woman had blushed clear to the tops of her ears. “Certainly, sir. I’m right on it.”

*

He found Benedict right where he'd left him, still absorbed in the script, mouthing words, pantomiming something. Ben broke off, startled at the whoosh of cold air with the door's opening. “Martin, I had this idea . . .” he launched off, his long, sculpted face alive with energy. Martin had to make himself focus on what Ben was saying as he watched the blue-green of his eyes sparkling, his elegant hands waving in the air as he described how they might tweak a scene.

"Yeah, yeah, Sure, Ben, we could try that.” Martin nodded, already entranced. He slipped his off coat, and chucked it over the back of a chair before joining his co-star on the sofa.

They had gone over a small bit twice when a knock at the door interrupted them. Martin got up to answer it. Cathy, still looking flushed, passed him a tray with two cups and a heavy paper sack. Martin thanked her and carried it all to the low table by the sofa. He passed Ben the paper cup marked "B.C." before unpacking the bag to reveal three packets of different sorts of biscuits, and an extensive selection of fresh fruit to spread across the table.

“Well, someone must love you.” Martin snorted.

“Not me, mate. I saw how Cathy smiled at you.” The side of Ben’s mouth tipped up as he nodded toward the door.

“Pffft.” Martin blew out a derisive breath. “The trappings of fame, eh? Time was I couldn’t pull a bird for love or money.”

“Aw, not you Martin, with your cute little Hobbit face.” Ben grinned.

“Oi. Fuck you, dragon.” Martin scowled. “Banana?” He gestured to the bounty on the table.

“Erm, no. I’ll take an apple though.”

“Cheers,” Martin said, bunging a nice red one his way.

Ben caught it easily in his large hand, crunching a juicy bite out of the side. “Mmm. Thanks. So in this scene on page thirty, what do you think . . .”

Martin smiled as he moved to sit beside Ben, unpeeling a banana for himself.

By the time they’d finished eating, and had talked through the parts Ben had pointed out, they seemed to have reached the end of the simple things. There was nothing left, but to tackle THAT scene, the one they’d been putting off dealing with so far.

“So.” Benedict cleared his throat nervously. “Should we give it a go? Practice it before we have to do it before the entire crew?” Ben turned guileless quicksilver eyes Martin’s way.

“Right.” Martin nodded, rubbing his palms down his thighs. Although he acted the tough guy at times, there were some things that unnerved him too. Throwing down a passionate liplock with a bloke he was chummy with was a new one for Martin. He knew it shouldn’t be any different from all the lovely actresses he’d kissed in front of the camera, but this was Ben, and somehow things felt . . . different.

“Sure, of course. I’ll just . . .”

“Shouldn’t you . . . first . . .” Ben waved a slim finger across his upper lip.

“Oh right, of course. The bush.” Martin smiled wryly as he crossed to a small table where he’d dropped his stuff earlier. “Christ, I hate wearing these things.” Martin patted the stage mustache, still a bit sticky on the back, into place over his mouth. “I guess we need to get used to it. For the scene.” Martin finished lamely.

Ben gave him an encouraging smile as he rose. “Marvelous. All right. Should we take it from the top?” Ben was a professional. Martin appreciated it. No slogging through take after take while some prat faffed around making a complete arse of themselves like Ricky sodding Gervaise on _the Office_ set. Nope. When Ben threw himself into the role, he held nothing back. No fear. It was a pleasure to work with the man. Surely this would be no different than the usual camaraderie they had built between them.

Martin squared his shoulders, and flashed Ben a small smile in return. “I’ll just get into place then, shall I?”  

“Here let’s make a bit more room,” Ben offered, and they pushed the seats and coffee table back against the walls to make more space for Martin to lie down on the thin carpet of the floor. Ben sank to his knees to loom over Martin once he had stretched out on his back.

“Okay, ready?”

“Ready.”Martin gave a small nod. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready, but it was now or in front of a crew for the first time later. A bit of privacy was definitely better.

Ben took in a deep breath and blew it out. Martin could see as the man _shifted_ , his gaze hardening, his whole person changing to that of the famous detective. It was easy to follow his lead. He closed his eyes, slipping into his Dr. John Watson skin, waiting. He didn’t have to wait long.

Holmes grabbed him, patting over him in a panic. “Watson, Watson, are you hurt? Where were you hit? For God sake, speak to me, John!” Sherlock left off his exploration to pull Watson against him.

John shuddered in the man’s embrace. His eyes fluttered open. “No, no I’m all right. The bullet missed me. I just slipped over. The ghost . . .?”

“Lestrade’s on the trail. I saw you go down. I thought . . . I thought . . .”

John gulped. Those ocean-water eyes bore down on him, searching, devouring. “What did you think?” he whispered.

“That I’d lost you.” Holmes ground out.

It was but a moment before Sherlock’s mouth was upon his. There was nothing hesitant about it as their lips crushed together. John felt the floodgates that he had so carefully constructed around his heart crumble in the onslaught of emotion welling over him. His arms reached out to clutch Sherlock tighter.

“Sherlock, oh God.” John moaned as the taller man pulled back briefly, his darkened eyes boring into him.

“ _John_.” There was a world of meaning in that one tender syllable before hungry lips changed angle, and dove back down to reclaim him. Their frantic energy shifted to something deeper. A heady dance of lips and tongue sent heat blazing to John’s core, dissolving him into pure need, _God, yes_ , it was amazing, this feeling of complete surrender, of feeling buoyed on a tidal wave of bliss, it was . . .

The two men broke apart at a sharp knock at the trailer door. Martin looked up, panting. The damn fake mustache was now hanging off the side of Ben’s face. Ben stared at him, struggling to draw in a good breath as well.

“Wha . . .” Martin asked, temporarily at sea.

Ben looked toward the door. “Yes, what is it?” He asked, raising his voice to be heard.

“Fifteen minutes before we need you two on set, please.” Someone called through the door.

“Right-o. Thanks so much.” Ben replied.

They held still, watching the closed door, listening as the sound of footsteps retreated from beyond. Ben glanced back at Martin. His mouth was doing a funny wobble as he tried not to laugh. Martin reached out to capture the errant mustache dangling from Ben’s cheek. They both looked at the thing, lying like a woolly caterpillar in Martin’s palm, and lost it. Benedict’s baritone chuckles rolled out under Martin’s higher pitched giggles in a symphony of mirth.

Ben finally sat back on his bum, and reached out to pull Martin up to sitting as well.

“So, that went well.” Martin smiled once he had caught his breath. He swiped a hand over his sensitive, kiss-swollen lips.

“Except for the traveling mustache.” Ben cocked an eyebrow skyward.

“We’ll have Claire glue it down extra tight.” Martin said, mentioning one of the make-up artists.

“Ah, come on, old man. Let’s go make a movie.” Ben smiled clapping Martin on the shoulder.

“Right behind you, mate.”

*

Martin knocked softly on Benedict’s bedroom door and waited. If he wasn’t up, Martin didn’t want to disturb him. The rest of the day’s shooting had gone well enough. They’d gotten some short scenes outside the manor done. The cast had eaten dinner together at a small restaurant in the nearby town, and then retreated to their evening accomodations for some well-deserved rest. Ben and Martin had reservations with a charming little B & B, while the rest of the cast and crew were staying down the road at a nice, but functional hotel. Loo and Rupert had grumbled a bit about divas with swelled heads, but they all knew that Ben and Martin were big names, and had to maintain a lower profile when they were out filming. They’d only be at this location one more day, and then it was back to the studio in Cardiff to round out the week.

After Martin had called home, checked in with Amanda and caught the kids before they went to bed, he found himself at Ben’s door. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say, but that moment in his trailer kept going through his mind. Working so closely together was just going to get awkward if they didn’t clear the air. The filming that afternoon had been all right, but Martin had found his gaze drifting to Ben’s mouth more than he had liked.

Martin was about to head back to his room when the door opened. Ben was on his mobile. He smiled, and motioned Martin to come in and take a chair while he finished the call. Martin sat in the soft chair with doilies over the arms, and watched Ben talk. He looked good, relaxed. He’d obviously just showered, his curly hair still a bit damp, and changed into soft track suit bottoms and an old tee shirt.

‘Yeah, I know that’s what I said. . . . I know, luv, I agree. . . . Listen, I need to go, Martin’s just dropped by. Yeah, I will . . . Love you too, bubby. Good night.” Ben made a very unashamed kissing noise into the phone before clicking it off and setting it to the nightstand.

“Hiya. Sophie sends her love.”

“Cheers, mate.” Martin smiled a bit. “How is she? Everything all right?” This wasn’t going to be the easiest thing to talk about, that kiss . . . his feelings. But communicating was his job, wasn’t it. Martin was sure he’d get somewhere if he just got the ball rolling. Where to start though?

“Apart from being hungry all the time, she’s doing great. I feel like an arse being away while she’s pregnant though. At least we’ll be back in London in a couple of days.” Ben sighed. “Fancy a cuppa? I just turned the kettle on. I think there’s enough water for two.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Martin nodded, watching as Benedict moved to fiddle with cups and tea bags.

Ben crossed the room with the mugs when they were ready, placing one on the small table by Martin before settling into the chair opposite with his own.

“I think things went brilliantly today with the carriage scene. You were really on point today.” Ben paused to take a sip from his cup.

“Are you kidding? I almost fell on my arse.” Martin humphed.

“Well, I wasn’t going to mention that part.” The side of Ben’s mouth tipped up. “I meant after that. That next take was brilliant.”

“Well, you did most of the talking. I think you really nailed it today.”

“You think so? I think maybe I might have . . .” Ben was off again discussing the finer points of a scene, and Martin tipped his head, just watching the brilliant man thinking aloud, putting his cup down so he could wave both hands about. When things finally wound down, Martin saw his opportunity. He took a breath, and jumped in.

“So, uh, Ben, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Hmmm?” Benedict’s eyebrows rose.

Martin cleared his throat. “So, the big kiss scene.”

“Yup.” Ben waited politely for Martin to continue.

“It’s tomorrow.”

“Are you nervous?” Ben grinned. He looked about twelve when that cheeky smile took over his face.

“Oh fuck you, you arse, I’m not _nervous_.”

“Well, I’m nervous.” Ben sobered. “It’s a big moment. The big reveal. I don’t want to bodge it up, you know.”

“Well, don’t put too much tongue down my throat and it should go okay, right?” Martin teased, and was rewarded with a small chuckle from Ben. “I think keeping it a secret for a whole year is going to be a lot harder than kissing you.” Martin felt awkward the moment after he’d said it, but he couldn’t grab the words back out of the air. There. At least he was getting things rolling.

“Yeah, I think things went well today. In the kissing department.”

“They did.” Martin smiled weakly. “Ben, I wanted to ask you about that. We never really talked . . . was that your first . . . I mean I know you’re with Sophie, but . . . men. Did you ever . . .”

“OH, God, yes. Loads. I went to an all-boys school after all. We were horny little bastards all over each other all the time. It didn’t mean anything though, you know. It was just getting off.” Ben turned his almond-shaped eyes to consider Martin. “How about you?”

“Me? Well, you know. Acting.” It was Martin’s turn to wave a hand in the air. “I did some summer stock after school. We were always getting drunk, puppy piles after shows. It didn’t quite matter who was next to you as long as they were warm and willing. Christ. I sound like a degenerate.” Martin took a hasty swallow of his cooling tea. God, could he run off at the mouth any _more?_

“Some of the perks of the job, yeah?” Ben smiled. “I mean all those emotions sloshing around on stage. They have to go somewhere? It doesn’t mean anything though. Just blowing off steam. The only problem is when people think it’s more than that.”

“Right, right.” Martin nodded, setting his cup down with a small rattle. He leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. “I agree, you need to keep it professional.”

“It’s one of the reasons I so enjoy working with you, Martin. You’re so solid. You always have my back, it really helps, you know?” Ben tilted his head a bit, and Martin felt the words he’d wanted to say dying in transit.

“Thanks, Ben.”

“Port?” Ben asked gesturing to a small decanter set on the bedside table. “Our hostess dropped it off, and I didn’t have the heart to say no. It seemed silly to drink alone, but with you here . . .” Ben trailed off.

“Yeah, why not? Just a bit,” Martin said.

The hostesses of their B & B were a delightful, middle-aged lesbian couple. They had been so gracious, showing just the right mix of low-key excitement at hosting famous guests, and discretion, leaving them alone to settle in, promising they wouldn’t breathe a word of their visit to anyone.

Martin smiled as Ben passed him a small tumbler filled with the dark amber liquid. They clinked edges together in toast.

“Sláinte.” Ben declared in Gaelic before taking a sip.

“To your health.” Martin smiled fondly, and took a drink himself, letting the sweet, nutty liquid burn a soothing path down his throat. Nice.

“It’s not really that different though, is it? Kissing men, that is.” Ben wrinkled his forehead charmingly as he thought. “I mean, there’s beard stubble, and different plumbing below, but really it’s just people, skin, touching.”

“How does the plumbing come into it with just kissing?” Martin teased, taking another sip.

Ben blew out a rude sound. “Well, if it’s _good_ kissing, all sorts of things can come into it, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah I do. I agree. Everyone’s probably a little bisexual, right?” Martin grinned back. “It’s all these labels and pronouncements of society. Getting in the way, you know what I mean?”

“I know, God, Can you imagine. People use to go to JAIL for being gay. In England! Well, they still do. Look at Russia. Breaks my heart.” Ben took another swallow of his drink.

“I agree. It’s a tragic shame. Government out of people’s pants, yeah?” Martin quipped, and they both sniggered, sipping the last of their port in companionable silence.

“Listen, I know it’s late, but I wondered if we could go over the kissing scene again?” Ben had mellowed even more after his nightcap, sprawling carelessly across his chair. “There were some other approaches I wanted to try. We didn’t really have time to work it through earlier.”

“Yeah, sure. I wasn’t going to bed for another hour at least.” Martin found himself saying, rising from his chair with a smile.

“Brilliant!” Ben grinned, sitting up straighter. “Why don’t we make a comfier spot for you?”

Together they dragged the duvet off the bed and folded it to make a pallet for Martin to lie on across the floor. Martin stretched out, arranging himself on the blanket. He could do this. Ben was obviously not feeling anything weird about the physical side of this part, and Martin would do the same. He could separate the play-acting from the real. He’d just gotten a bit confused there for a moment. Martin closed his eyes, and made himself relax.

“Ready?” Ben said, his voice hovering nearby.

“Ready.”

But Martin still wasn’t ready. Not really. When Benedict cried out his lines, and pulled Martin to meet his lips, it was an avalanche of feelings all over again. Martin’s objectivity was a little dry twig exploding in the great burst of flame sweeping over him. Grasping hands found their way to Ben’s back. One clutched his shoulder while the other snaked up to cup his nape, fingers tangling in the short curls at the back of his head. Ben had washed away the product that had weighed his lovely hair back all day. Martin reveled in the soft feeling of it let loose. And Ben’s mouth, plush lips, searching tongue, God. It was a wild thing, all over him, tasting of the sweet wine he’d just drunk, and soft, and good and . . . Martin felt like he could drown in Ben, and die a happy man. All conscious thought flew from his mind as they simply merged into each other, enjoying the waves that tumbled them along. Martin sucked Ben’s lower lip into his mouth and bit down just slightly. The groan that rumbled up from the other man shivered through them both.

When something of reality filtered in, Martin realized he’d gone completely hard. A pulsing, needy heat pushed out his jean’s front, pressing right into Ben’s stomach. Martin made some strangled noise in the back of his throat, and tried to squirm away. Ben shifted too, but the movement only served to bring them into better alignment. They both gasped when one steely erection slid over another.

“Martin.” Ben’s shocked breath sucked in over his teeth.

“Oh God, Ben, I’m so sorry . . . I . . .” Martin’s words stopped in midstream when he saw the expression on the man’s face looming over him. It had softened into something like wonder, his gorgeous, mosaic irises completely fixed on him. Those fine lines around Ben’s eyes and mouth had deepened over the last few years. It reminded him that neither of them were getting any younger. _Christ_ , but Ben was still a fine looking specimen.

“Martin.” His own name had transformed into something dark and low in Ben’s mouth. It slid like hot caramel over his ears. Martin had no time to think before Ben swooped back in. Something in Martin snapped as Ben’s lips reclaimed his. This time, he was no longer a confused Victorian man blindsided by his bisexuality. Martin Freeman opened up and kissed his lover with every sensual fibre of his being. He could feel the shift in Ben too, as he blended into Martin’s flow. If their earlier kiss has been a forest fire, this one was a bloody explosion. It hardly registered when Ben slid a hand down, working Martin’s flies open until an impossibly long hand wrapped around his aching cock.

“Jesus, Ben.” Martin choked out.

“Too much?”

“No, God, no, don’t stop.”

Those clever fingers moved over him, sliding his foreskin along his shaft until Martin hissed at the friction.

“Oh, sorry, wait.” Ben pulled his hand back to lick a stripe over his palm. He returned with a spit-slick hand, and Martin nearly keened at how good it felt working over him.

“You gorgeous man.” Ben whispered, laying small kisses at Martin’s temple. Martin came quicker than he had in years, spurting out over Ben’s lovely fingers. His eyes nearly rolled back at the pleasure coursing over him. When he finally returned to himself, Ben was holding him close, kissing into his hair.

“Oh, God, that was, that was . . .” Martin struggled to get his brain online.

“Strange?”

“Fantastic,” he sighed,“but you . . .” Martin could feel Ben’s lovely hard-on against his hip through the thin fabric of his bottoms. He rolled himself against the heat, and Ben gasped, his eyes falling closed.

“Off!” Martin commanded, tugging at his clothes. “All of it, off.”

“God, yes.” Ben mumbled. They undressed as quickly as they could manage, flinging themselves together, wrapping arms around deliciously bare skin. If Martin had thought Ben’s fingers felt nice on him, it was nothing compared to having the full lanky length of the man pressed along his entire body.

“Oh, I could eat you whole.” Martin growled against his ear.

“Please. Oh yes, please.”

Ben swallowed, and Martin watched his lover’s adams apple bob in his slender throat, transfixed.

That was all it took for Martin to roll Ben onto his back and have him head to toe. He kissed across the lovely planes of Ben’s elegant face, over his jaw, and along the smooth column of his long, pale neck, sliding downward, ever downward. Ben writhed under him as Martin left no inch uncovered. He licked, nipped, sucked and tasted simply everywhere on that gorgeous, lean body. When Martin parted Ben’s thighs and plush cheeks, and licked a stripe over his arsehole, Ben gasped out gorgeous nonsense, half out of his head. Martin worked his way up, mouthing over bollocks, until he had Ben’s straining cock before his face.

“Can I, sweetheart?” He asked just touching his tongue to the weeping tip.

“Martin.” Ben whipped his head side to side, his fingers grasping at the duvet under him. He seemed beyond any words besides his name, but Martin took the anguished cry as consent. Of course why he was stopping to ask permission for this liberty after everything else he’d just done to Ben’s body . . . Martin opened his lips and took Ben inside. Martin lost himself in the taste, and smell, the heft of Ben’s cock in his mouth as he bobbed over his length. It all blurred into a gorgeous slide of skin, and heat, and moans from somewhere above him. Soon enough, Ben was falling apart, ejaculating into his mouth. Martin gentled his passes, holding Ben on his tongue for a few moments longer until he softened, and the quakes across Ben’s form stilled and settled. Martin let him slide from his mouth somewhat reluctantly. He patted Ben's hip, squeezed, and left briefly for the ensuite. He rinsed his mouth at the sink, and wet a flannel to bring back with him.

Ben looked passed out, limply poured over the duvet on the floor. He roused when Martin settled beside him to run the warm cloth over him though. "Mmmmmm." Ben rumbled before rolling his head to face Martin, his face sweetly slack. “God, Martin. You . . . you are a force of nature. I had no idea.”

“You’re no slouch yourself.” Martin chuckled softly, his eyes feasting over his lovely nude form. Sadly, he could see the moment when rational thought crept back into Ben’s mind. His face and body tensed.

“No, don’t.” Martin held up a palm. “Let’s just let this be for tonight. We don’t need to speak about it later if we don’t want to. A one off.”

Ben nodded, but Martin could see the unhappiness creeping in.

“Look, I’ll just be going, all right?” Martin made to rise, and gather his clothes, but Ben reached out to grasp his wrist.

“No, Martin. Please, stay.” His eyes, gone soft again, flickered toward the bed. “Just tonight.”

“All right,” Martin said quietly, giving a small nod, as if he could manage to do anything else other than climb into Benedict Cumberbatch’s bed once invited.

Martin helped Ben lift the duvet back onto the bed, and they settled under the covers together. It was so easy to roll into the centre and begin anew. They fell into a whirlpool of lips, and teeth and tongues, hands cupping arses to pull them even closer. Their one off became three times, as they woke just before dawn when Martin had to use the loo. They made love when he returned, soft and warm, and only half-awake. Martin slipped off to his own room to take a shower after, and they met downstairs just in time for the car to return them to set looking tired, but buoyant.

They managed to tamp it down during work hours. It was a long day. After some filming to catch the morning light, they had several hours free, but stumbled back to their own trailers for a nap before a nighttime shoot featuring a daring chase, and The Kiss. Still, they managed to eat dinner together in Ben’s trailer. The make-up artists had glued Martin’s mustache down with industrial strength spirit gum, and it wasn’t moving for anything short of earthquakes or large amounts of rubbing alcohol. They told themselves it was just scene practice to wrap themselves together on the sofa and snog around Martin’s handlebar glory. By unspoken agreement, they kept it all above the belt. Things were a little tired in that area anyway. Christ, Martin felt like a teenager again, necking in someone’s basement, hoping their parents didn’t come home soon and catch them going at it.

“Crumbs, that thing is prickly,” Ben said, leaning back, his eyes at half-mast.

“Hmm, you’re getting red.” Martin reached out to rub a tender thumb over Benedict’s upper lip. “Maybe we should stop.”

“I can get more make-up.” Ben mumbled diving back in, and no more was said before another knock at the door warned them to be on set in fifteen.

*

The chase went even better than expected, and the on-screen kiss was incandescent. The crew applauded when they were done, and Mark came over, tears in his eyes, to hug them both.

“You don’t know. You don’t know what this means to me.” He said. “You two have done a brilliant job.”

“Cheers, mate. We’ve got this.” Martin said squeezing Mark’s shoulder.

“Glad you liked it.” Ben smiled shyly, dropping his eyes.

“Since 1895, they’ve been waiting,” Mark exclaimed, “and it’s finally time for them to be together.”

The excitement was contagious. Everyone on set grinned at each other like drunken fools. Ben finally looked up, and flashed Martin a quick smile that sent electricity crackling down his spine.

 

*

 

They returned to the B & B quite late, but after retiring to their separate rooms, Martin found himself knocking at Ben’s door once again. Ben opened it almost instantly, a dark figure silhouetted by one small lamp on the bedside table.

“Thank God.” He breathed, pulling Martin inside. They hardly spoke a word, turning down the blankets, and tumbling together to meet under them. They made love with a quiet fierceness. Tonight felt like an ending to something barely begun. Real life waited for them outside the twee walls of the bed and breakfast, well they knew.

Filming back at Cardiff moved at a hectic pace, and someone else was around them all of the time. There was hardly a moment of peace before everything wrapped. Martin felt sick to his stomach, smiling at Ben but keeping his distance. He could see the tightness around Ben’s eyes too, but they both did a stellar job of keeping it all locked down. They were consummate actors after all. It has been wrong, Martin knew that, but he wouldn’t have traded those two days in Ben’s arms for anything. The crew threw a big party after the last day of filming, and Amanda traveled back out for it. They wouldn’t all be getting together again for another year at least.

“I hate saying good-bye to you lot.” Loo sniffed, and took another drink from her paper cup.

“I know, dear. You’re like family.” Una smiled, patting her arm. “I’ll miss you all terribly.”

“We’ll be busy though, right? It will fly by.” Rupert grinned, popping a meatball into his mouth. “Christ, look at Cumbie over there. HAMLET. Break a leg, right, you jammy bastard!”

“Thanks Rupert.” Ben smiled, and looked at his feet. “I hope it goes well.”

“Are there any more crepes?” Amanda asked one of the passing catering staff.

It was so cliché, like a rendezvous at a gay club, but Ben and Martin managed to meet up at the gents, locking the door behind them.

“God, Ben, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Martin pulled him close, burying his face in Ben's neck.

“Shhh. It’s not your fault. All right? You’re not to blame.” Ben gripped him tightly with one hand, rubbing a soothing circle over Martin’s back with the other. "If anything, it's my fault."

"No." Martin shook his head against Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault, it just happened. We both wanted it to happen."

Their lips connected without anyone meaning to, and they kissed like men possessed, grasping each other as tightly as they could. For some reason, Martin had grown utterly addicted to the sweet taste of Ben on his tongue. Finally, finally, they managed to break apart, splashing water over their faces. Martin reached up to brush a fallen lock of hair off Benedict’s forehead. “I like your curls better than that slicked-back look,” he said.

“Well, maybe I like you better with a mustache.” Ben quirked up one side of his mouth sadly.

“We’ll see each other again. This isn’t the end of . . . everything.” Martin said although what “everything” was had never been defined exactly. “We’ll keep in touch, right? You’ve got my number.”

Ben nodded. “I know, still, it’s rotten. Really rotten. I’ll miss you.”

Martin felt something click in his throat. He had to swallow a few times. “I know. I’ll miss you too.”

One last brief embrace, and wordlessly, they steadied themselves, leaving the toilet at different times.

Life zoomed on as it always did. Ben had so much swirling around him it wasn’t funny, a wedding, an Oscar night, a baby on the way, filming for a movie in America. Martin had his own projects, and appearances to plan for. When he wasn’t working, he threw himself into spending time with the kids, Joe and Grace always had something going on at school, or karate or dance classes to attend. God, they were growing up so fast. No one was sitting around pining for a phone call. Still, Martin always jumped when he got a ring or a text and “Ben C” appeared on the screen.

He got a frantic call from Ben one evening a week after the cast party. “I’m sorry. Martin. I had to tell Sophie. I just didn’t feel right keeping it a secret from her.” Ben sounded like he was crying.

“No, it’s all right, calm down, Ben, I understand, I do.” Martin talked him down, and agreed that he would tell Amanda as well. He’d meant to, but it was just so hard to get the conversation going. Amanda was angry, hurt of course when he told her, but they’d been together for awhile now. This wasn’t the first time something like this had come up – for both of them. It was the first time something so meaningful had happened though. Amanda had him sleep on the sofa for three days, but then she forgave him, and they went back to things as usual. He loved her, she was his life, and he knew she loved him. It was just that thoughts of Ben hovered at the edges of his mind, popping up when he least expected them. Whenever he sat and wool gathered, Ben’s strong arms were just waiting to slip around his him, and hold him tight – if only in spirit.

When the Hunter-Cumberbatch wedding was announced a few weeks later, Ben sent him an awful text saying Sophie had asked that they not be there. Amanda was bitter. She’d already bought a dress to wear, and the media kept nattering on about Martin being picked as Ben’s best man. Amanda dashed off some rude note to twitter about it being “gut-bustlingly funny” that they weren’t even attending the wedding. Still, it was Valentine’s day. They had a nice take-away dinner with the kids, and watched a movie together afterwards. Martin had a good life, and he was grateful for it.

He and Ben still texted, and talked occasionally on the phone. His son, Christopher, was born in early June. Ben emailed an adorable photo of him holding the boy, Sophie beside them, their faces shining. Martin and Amanda sent a large gift basket filled with little socks and onesies rolled up to look like yellow and green flowers. Sophie mailed out a nice thank-you note in reply.

Ben called him one night nearly unhinged because Chris wouldn’t stop crying, Martin could hear the baby wailing in the background. It was Sophie’s night to sleep. “Run the vacuum,” Martin said. “Wrap him tight in a blanket, put him over your knees belly down, and jiggle him.” Ben had called the next day gushing with gratitude that it had worked. They’d ended up wanking together over the phone then. They hadn’t planned it. Like anything in all this, it just happened. Ben had admitted to being horny for him. Martin had dared him to put his hand down his pants and do something about it, and the barmy bugger had gone and done it. Martin had no choice but to wank along with him in the downstairs loo crooning in Ben’s ear to imagine that it was his hand sliding over his lovely long cock. Benedict hadn’t called him for three weeks after that.

It wasn’t until late summer, Benedict was playing Hamlet at the Barbican theater, that they actually laid eyes on each other in person. A group of Sherlock people came to see him perform one night, Martin and Amanda included. Ben was magnificent. Martin had to keep his hand over his wobbling mouth as he watched Benedict tearing about the stage with shouts, and tears, veins popping out along his long sinewy forearms. God, he looked so thin, and wound tight like a coil about to go off at any moment. The role was a bit bombastic. Ben had dialed it up to eleven from the get go, and the rest of the cast hardly seemed able to keep up with him. Still he was glorious. Martin practically devoured him with his eyes, thrilled with seeing him in the flesh after all this time apart. It felt like a burning ball had lodged somewhere in his belly as he watched Ben’s character unraveling in the madness, sweat pouring off of him. Martin was so proud of him, it hurt.

They all met afterwards in a rented room at a nearby restaurant for dinner. Benedict had come up and hugged him without any notice, and Martin struggled to keep it casual. Ben smelled incredible. For a moment Martin was afraid he wouldn’t let go, would simply cling like a limpet, and all their discretion would go up in smoke. Ben was high on adrenaline, grinning ear to ear.

“Good on you, mate. That was smashing, really good.” Martin gushed, clapping him on shoulder. He knew Amanda was glaring daggers at the back of his head.

“Thanks, Martin. Thanks for coming. All of you.” Ben had turned to embrace Andrew Scott next, and the dangerous moment passed. Martin ended up sat at the long table several spots down from Ben, a vase of lilies half blocking his view from anyone but Amanda on one side, and Loo Brealey on the other. Amanda was sour through the whole meal. Thankfully Loo was her usually bubbly self, and carried a lively conversation through pudding. When the servers came around offering coffees or a digestif, Amanda said she had a headache, and they left a bit early. Martin made certain to say good-bye to Ben on the way out. A few smiling words, a quick handshake, and he and Amanda were off. He glanced back though, catching a glimpse of Ben’s face from the door. He looked crushed.

It was Martin who called him later that night. “God, Ben, I miss you. You were incredible, just . . .”

“I’m glad you could make it. I was so glad you got to see the play. Did you really like it?”

“I wouldn’t have missed it. You were magnificent. I couldn’t keep my eyes of you. But it was so hard seeing you . . . with everyone around.”

“God, Martin, I know. I’m sorry I grabbed you like that. I was just so excited to see you, to actually touch you. I’m an idiot.”

“Ben, no. You’re fine, you’re great. Of course you are.” Martin paused. “Look, I need to see you. Just the two of us. Can we do that? Meet somewhere for a bite, a coffee, anything?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’d like that. Let me check on things with Sophie, check my calendar. I’ll text you when I know.”

When his phone buzzed later that night, Ben had texted him an address and a time, dinner at restaurant at a small inn outside of town, middle of the week. “Ask for Mr. Carlton when you arrive” the next text said. Martin smiled, and contacted a car service, making a reservation for a lift. He debated what to tell Amanda. In the end he took the coward’s way out, and didn’t tell her anything. He simply left the house before Amanda got home from work, handing the kids off to their regular sitter. It was only once he was sinking into the plush seat at the back of the car that he fired off a text. He typed out that he had a meeting that night and not to wait up, sent the message, and turned his phone off.

The inn was charming - all exposed beams, and small casement windows with electric candles burning inside. When Martin gave them Ben's middle name at the restaurant, the hostess smiled, and told him they were meeting in a room upstairs. She led Martin up some narrow steps not to a private dining room as he expected, but to a section of guest rooms. “Here you go, sir, number 21,” she said pointing down the hallway. “Just through there.”

Martin thanked her, and found the door easily enough. He raised a hand, but hesitated, almost afraid to knock. What if Ben hadn’t come? Or what if Ben had come, but was only doing this to humor him? It had been months since they’d texted with any regularity. Martin swallowed, and rapped his knuckles against the smooth wood. A moment passed and the door opened. Ben stood there looking effortlessly gorgeous in casual trousers and a blue button up left loose at the throat. 

“You made it.” Ben’s mouth quirked into a funny little smile. “Come in.” He held the door open wide for Martin to pass through.

“Nice, this is nice,” Martin said, looking about as he stepped inside. He walked around the room, hands behind his back, inspecting things as he went. He glanced at some prints on the walls, wandered by the heavy oak table and padded dining chairs, the cozy armchairs by a fire crackling in the small fireplace. Martin couldn’t help also noticing a door partway open leading to a huge four poster bed. He cleared his throat and continued his circuit of the room, fetching up at a large, hideous old painting of a fox hunt. He looked everywhere but where his eyes most wanted to be, drinking in Benedict. If this wasn’t what he thought it was, Martin didn’t want to embarrass himself, throwing himself at the man.

He felt more than heard Ben cross the room to join him. His lovely voice was so near when he spoke. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of English country art, Martin.”

“Mmmm. Lots to be learned from art like this.”

“Oh really?” Ben said wryly.

“Yes, mostly that it’s fucking ugly.”

Ben laughed and the sound was like water falling over a parched desert. Martin turned and they fell together. In a heartbeat, their mouths met, consuming, tasting, relearning the feel of each other. Ben’s arms wound tightly around Martin, trying to get closer to him through the layers he wore.

“Why don’t you take off your coat, and stay awhile?” Ben laughed as he pulled back.

Martin tore off his jacket, feeling chagrined. “I think I just might.” He smiled, tossing it over the back of a chair. Ben was back on him in an instant, hands gripping, mouths, desperate things coming together. They only broke apart again when a knock sounded at the door.

“Bloody hell.” Martin swore.

“It’s just the dinner,” Ben said. He looked so bright-eyed and flushed, Martin wanted to pull him back down, and make him blush harder.

“Here, I’ll just step in the other room.”

“Good idea. The less people who see us together, the better.” Ben agreed.

Martin nipped into the loo, pulling the door closed. He could hear a cart rolling in, voices, the higher pitch of the employee, the lovely rolling tones of Ben’s. People would remember seeing Benedict here, but hopefully no one would connect the two of them being together. Martin used the toilet, and washed his hands. He glanced at himself in the mirror. God, the bags under his eyes had gotten worse lately. Martin sighed. Nothing to be done about it really. When he heard the outer door open and close, he came back to the main room. Ben was poking about, taking the covers off of several dishes now set across the table.

“Ben,” Martin had to clear his throat around the sudden lump that had formed. “If you don’t mind. I’m not that hungry. Dinner could wait a minute. Unless you don’t want . . . I mean I’d understand if you don’t . . .” He looked meaningfully toward the bedroom, hopefully.

“God, yes.” Benedict dropped the lids with a crash, crossing the room to envelope Martin in his long arms. The two of them stumbled blindly, kissing all the way to the big bed. The backs of Ben’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, and his long legs folded as he fell across it. He sprawled back, arms held open in invitation. Martin climbed up and over, settling down on top of him. They both sighed in relief as they sank together, limbs entwining.

“I missed you.” Ben sighed.

“I missed you more.” Martin nipped at his neck, and Ben nearly purred as he stretched out, tipping his head back to give him better access.

They peeled each other out of their clothes, and turned down the covers to crawl under. The room was cool enough that they hurried to get under the blankets and at each other. They came together with nothing pretty or coordinated, just lips crushing together and hands gripping and stroking, trying to get closer, always closer. Ben halted their fumbling long enough to reach out and find a bottle of lube left by the side of the bed.

“Clever boy.” Martin rumbled, nipping at his earlobe.

“Well, I don’t play Sherlock for nothing.” Ben grinned.

“Arse.” Martin growled playfully reaching down to pinch just that part of Ben’s anatomy. Ben squeaked delightfully.

“Prat.” Ben countered letting his long fingers slide up to tickle along Martin’s ribs. When Martin nearly shrieked, convulsing under Ben’s onslaught, the tall man chortled, crawling on top of Martin, tickling under his arms mercilessly. “Oooh, you’re ticklish!” He crowed.

“Stop, stop, mercy!” Martin cried.

“Oh, well if you’re begging for mercy, then.” Ben paused, a saucy smile twitching up the side of his mouth. He left a long hand splayed over Martin’s chest.

“Mmm.” Martin said grinding his pelvis upward to connect with Benedict perched over him. He was gratified to watch his silly smile melting instantly to something much more languid and soft.

“Oh, that’s nice.” Ben gasped, letting his eyes close.

“Where’s that lube?” Martin asked.

“I dropped it.” Ben said patting about the covers until he found the small bottle. He held it up in triumph. “Look I found . . .”

Martin ground himself back up and watched Ben lose his words, his mouth hanging half open as their hot cocks slid against each other.

“Here, I’ll take that.” Martin plucked the lube from Ben’s loose fingers. He snicked open the top, and poured a ribbon of the slippery stuff over his palm before returning to gather their cocks together, slicking them up.

“Oh, God, that’s cold.” Ben complained.

“Give it a minute.” Martin worked his hand over the both of them, and as promised, it quickly warmed to the touch.

“Oh Martin.” Ben bent over, supported by his palms on either side of Martin’s head. His gorgeous, silvery eyes fluttered closed, as the pleasure built over them.

“Come for me. Come, my sweet boy.” Martin crooned, and Ben did, gasping lovely noises as he pumped hot stripes over Martin’s hand and belly. It shot a lance of heat through Martin watching him unravel, and he soon joined him, shuddering out his own orgasm.

“Mmmmm.” Ben nearly purred like a cat as he collapsed down, rolling quickly to the side of him. They were horribly sticky, but Martin didn’t care a whit. He wiped his hand over the corner of the sheet, and pulled Ben close to him, snugging them together. Ben lay his head down on Martin’s chest, and it felt like a small slice of heaven, a slice of Benedict heaven to just lie close, and breathe quietly together.

“I wasn’t sure I’d ever have this again.” Martin admitted into Ben’s auburn curls. They had grown out just a bit and Martin enjoyed petting his clean hand through them.

“I couldn’t stay away from you. I’ve become accustomed to you, I think.” Ben said, lifting his head to fix Martin with clear eyes.

Martin took a deep breath. As nice as it was to lie here in bliss, pretending there was nothing else, there was always something else, and many _someones_ in their lives to consider. “Ben, I’m sorry. I know this is awkward for you. God look at you - you’re married and have a baby now. You’re playing Hamlet. Good for you. I’m so happy for you. You’ve done so well. I know it’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“Thank you. And thank you for all the parenting advice. Christopher is almost three months now. He’s sleeping better, and it’s already getting easier. I can’t believe it sometimes, Martin. He was just a little thing in Sophie's bump, and now he’s here, a whole person. It’s a miracle.”

“It is, I know.” Martin grinned at him.

“Grace, and Joe, how are they?” Ben propped his chin up on his palm to better regard him.

“Good, hard at times though. They want expensive computers with all the bells and whistles now.” Martin rolled his eyes. “It never gets completely easy, parenting, it just gets different. Look at us.” Martin shook his head. “A couple of old dads.”

“Not so old as all that.” Ben chuckled and ran a hand back down Martin’s belly scooping up his soft cock. It stirred just a bit under his touch.

“God, Ben, the things you do to me.” He sucked in a breath.

“Martin, I’ve been thinking . . .”

“This sounds serious.”

“Well, it is . . .”

“Why don’t we have a shower, and some of that dinner before we get too serious?”

“All right.” Benedict looked slightly annoyed at being cut off, but he allowed Martin to pull him to the bath where a rather modern shower that fit two quite nicely waited for them. They took turns lathering each other up and sluicing down under the warm spray. Wrapped in fluffy white dressing gowns they found hanging in the loo, they returned to unpack the dinner. The pasta wasn’t too bad slightly cold. They filled their plates and retreated to the settee by the fire so they could eat side by side.

When everyone had eaten their fill, Martin added more wood to the fire, and they lay together watching it burn. Benedict relaxed back against Martin, while Martin let his fingers comb through Ben’s drying curls over and over. Ben almost melted into his lap, humming at the attentions.

“You’re really just a big cat aren’t you?” Martin said fondly.

“Does that make you a dog then?” Ben asked. “I think I fancy you being a terrier of some sort. You look all mild and sweet, until you get riled, and they you’re a fierce little thing.”

“Oi, Cumberbatch. You are not calling me small, are you?”

Ben twisted until he was on his stomach. He leaned forward to nose his way into Martin’s dressing gown, pushing the sides away to burrow his way to Martin's half-hard erection.

“With a cock like that? I should say not.” Ben purred. The look he shot him from under dropped eyelids was pure sex. “I missed him. Mr. Big Cock.”

Martin felt a growl building at the back of his throat. He knew he wasn’t small in that department, but it was gratifying to have Ben say so. Still. “Did you just name my willy?”

“Ooh, I could call him that. Mr. Big Willy.”

“Well, no, I think I like the first . . .” Martin choked on his words, and nearly part of his tongue as Ben opened his mouth and swallowed said large penis down his throat.

“MMmm” Ben hummed around him, and all coherent thought quite fled Martin’s mind. 

They made their way back to the bedroom later, and the bottle of lube, and it was quite some time before they finally settled down, sated and sweat covered, wrapped together under the covers.

“God, Ben. I don’t think I can give you up.” Martin felt a wave of emotion rising up over him at having this gorgeous long drink of water, so trustingly sprawled against him. “But I don’t want to hurt you either. Or anyone else. The kids, God, . . .” Martin broke off as his throat threatened to close up.

“Martin, I don’t have all the answers, but I have some ideas. Sophie and I were talking. She, well we, have some friends who are polyamorous. They have three in their group, and they’re free to see other people as they wish, if everyone agrees. Sophie has seen how much I’ve missed you. She wasn’t sure about it at first, but she’d be willing for us to do that, have an open marriage. I wouldn’t have as much free time as I might like, Christopher and Sophie need me. We’d have to get Amanda on board too for it to work, but . . . what do you think? We could still see each other at least a few times a month.”

“What do I think? God, I think it would be perfect." Martin felt his eyes misting over. He blinked to clear them. "To be honest I didn’t tell Amanda I was coming here tonight. I’m assuming Sophie knows?”

“She knows. She made the reservations for me.” Ben laid a kiss to Martin’s shoulder, the closest thing to his mouth.

“Amanda and I,” Martin cleared his throat, “we have something a bit less formal. We screw around on each other occasionally, and ask for forgiveness later. It's a bit less twenty-first century.”

“Would she agree to something like this?”

“I hope so,” Martin said. “It would be a damn sight healthier than what we’ve been doing. Amanda gets her feathers up, but I know she likes you. And I don’t want to pull random people anymore, Ben. I want to make this work.” He reached down to lace his short fingers into Ben’s long ones. It pleased him how different their hands looked together, but how nicely they fit all the same.

“Do you have to go tonight?” Ben asked wistfully.

“Let me make a phone call, and I’ll see. Okay? If I want to do this right, I’d better start now.”

Martin made his way to the loo with his mobile. Oddly enough he seemed to spend a lot of his time calling people from bathrooms only this time it was to home instead of to Ben. Amanda wasn’t happy, she’d suspected something like a tryst with Ben was going on tonight. She agreed to talk about it later though. When Martin told her he loved her, she tearfully told him the same.

Martin felt lighter, like less of a cheating shite, when he climbed back in to bed with Ben. It was a welcome relief.

*

Morning came too early, and parting was excrutiating. They both had things to do, places to go, though Martin truly wished it weren’t so.

“When can we get together again?” Martin asked, watching Ben pull clothes on over his lovely form. He sighed a bit as Benedict buttoned up his shirt, pale skin disappearing from view.

“We’ll have to check our calendars, and tell our publicists about us, about this. It isn’t the sort of thing they’ll want to be blindsided with, you know. We’ll have to be careful though. On top of all the Sherlock secrets, we’ll have our own secrets to keep too.”

“Wow.” Martin let the trousers in his hand drop back to the floor. “This is a thing. This could really be a thing.”

Ben smiled something bright and blinding. “God, I hope so.”

They fell into more snogging, and some gratuitous groping, but eventually everyone managed to dress before their cars arrived to ferry them off.

“Will you call me later?” Martin asked, an arm slung around Ben to pull him close one last time. His car had shown up first.

“Watch someone stop me.” Ben kissed him hard then released him. He lifted a hand in sad farewell, his eyes wet as Martin opened the door. "Bye."

"Good-bye, Ben," Martin said softly.

It was like leaving part of his heart behind, but Martin sighed and continued on. He closed the door behind him, making his way downstairs, and back to whatever waited outside.

*

The end of September found Martin striding into the building hosting the Raindance film festival. He pasted on a plastic smile, waving a hand as the cameras exploded, popping flashes to blind his eyes. Christ, he hated these things. It was a lot of glad handing, showing his mug around, nodding, the occasionally interview, nothing important need be said. Just another hour and he could be out of here. His publicist hovered nervously around the edge of the crowd as a group of reporters waylaid him, asking about his recent work. One pretty woman gushed about _Fargo_ , and Martin smiled at her, relieved. He thanked her for her praise. Then the Sherlock questions started, peppering in fast and furious.

A tall man loomed over Martin “Obviously people love these characters so much. I’m curious why do you think they love each other so much?” A microphone was thrust into his face.

Fear raced through Martin’s veins, and he blinked trying to gather his wits in the hot lights. God, no. Not these questions, the John and Sherlock questions. Mark and Steven had grilled them repeatedly, give NOTHING AWAY about the show, under pain of death, NO ONE IS TO KNOW ABOUT THE KISS IN THE SPECIAL.

“Who, Sherlock and John . . . um . . .” Martin looked away trying to scrape up something to say. He could feel the sweat gathering over his brow. “Well, it's a friendship. You know, obviously way more has been made in the aether of that relationship than has ever been put in the show. And the trouble is as soon as you start getting into a dialogue about that, it sounds like kind of you're denying things, or you know somehow being homophobic, because they're not actually fucking, they're not actually fucking . . .”

Martin sucked in a breath as the reporters tittered around him.

“Um, and it is possible for people of the same sex to have a deep friendship without being attracted to each other. The thing is people are attracted to each other in all sorts of ways. You don't necessarily want to bone someone just because you love them, you know what I mean. They respect each other, they bring different things to their friendship, I don't know, I don't know . . . I don't know . . .” Martin waffled off. He knew he was near babbling. Thank God another reporter stepped in, asking him about fame and if that dictated what projects he’d like to do in the future.

*

Martin’s mobile blew up just as he reached the relative safety of the car. He’d already gotten an earful from his publicist. “Martin, really.” She shook her head ruefully. “LANGUAGE. I know we’ve had this conversation before.”

The one call he was waiting on finally came through. A Paul Weller guitar riff announced Benedict’s call. Martin sighed, and swiped his thumb across the screen to answer. “God, _Ben._ ”

“All right, Sausage, what have you done now? I’ve had three people send me a link to some interview you gave tonight.”

“Ugh.” Martin pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “When does the fucking thing air? When does this sodding, buggering Sherlock Christmas special finally fucking play, and I can stop dodging bleeding, stupid questions about fucking Sherlock not actually fucking? Mark and Steven will KILL me if I let something slip. Meanwhile I sound like a right tit.”

“You sound like you need a soak. Go home and get in the tub.” Ben sounded tired himself, but so lovely.

“It’s good to hear from you. What are you up to?”

“I’m in tonight. Just going over some of my lines for Dr. Strange. It’s going to be brilliant, there’s this martial arts bit where I get to slam people into the wall . . ."

Martin smiled to himself just letting Ben’s voice wash over him. He got so excited about new projects, it was nice just to listen to his enthusiasm bubble on.

“It sounds great, Ben. So are we on for next Wednesday?” Martin asked. They had a one day get-away planned in the middle of the week.

“We most certainly are,” Ben purred.

“All right, I’m almost home. Talk to you later?”

“Of course. Good night.”

“Good night. Love you, Bad Boy.” 

“Love you too, Silly Man.”

 

*_*  THE END  *_*

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, well, the special just dropped, and I gotta add in here that this fic is NOW NON CANON COMPLIANT. Boo hiss. I was really kinda, sorta hoping we might get a Johnlock kiss in the shspesh. This was not to be. Ah well, a gal can dream. ;)


End file.
